


what a privilege to love you (to teach you all that i know)

by succulents_and_fairy_lights



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (chanting) DAD SON MOMENTS DAD SON MOMENTS, ALL of Bruce’s kids, Alfred Pennyworth-centric, Alfred's religious that's it that's the chapter, Angst, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Is A Bad Communicator, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne-centric, Bruce can sing fight me, Canonical Character Death, Dami is baby, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Hey guess what!! More crying and hugging because I’m a slut for that kinda thing, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot stop myself, Ooc cause they’re so fuckin cute and happy, Other tags to be added, Panic Attacks, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), This was supposed to be bruce-centric but now it's alfred's world and we're all just living in it, Timmy’s turrnnn!!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Dick Grayson, and Batman, and crying and hugging some more, but A Good Parent, but DAMN if that doesn't get me, but temporary as always, copious amounts of crying and hugging, dick can speak in this chapter...as a treat, he loves his kids okay, hes not a bastard here. I love him., i love them, i mean it’s DC. Everything is temporary, literally every chapter is just bruce and the kids crying and hugging, no beta we die like robins, seriously it’s so fluffy I’m gonna die, so can Jason, stephanie is bruce's kid fight me on this, they have a weird relationship but he's her dad, this is about the whole batfam, tune in next time for (guess what) MORE CRYING AND HUGGING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/succulents_and_fairy_lights/pseuds/succulents_and_fairy_lights
Summary: fa·ther/ˈfäT͟Hər/noun1. a man who gives care and protection to someone or something.The batfamily and the word “Dad.”
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Martha Wayne & Thomas Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Cullen Row & Bruce Wayne, Cullen Row & Harper Row, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Duke Thomas & Bruce Wayne, Harper Row & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 195
Kudos: 847





	1. cassandra

**Author's Note:**

> what is timeline?? What is canon? It is my own to mold and bend however I wish.

_ if only you knew  _

_ the sunlight shines a little brighter _

_ the weight of the world’s a little lighter _

_ the stars lean a little closer _

_ all because of you  _

Left hook. Block. Jab. Block again. Grab his arm, twist it behind him. Swift kick to the back of the knees, and he’s down. Choke hold. Wait for six counts...and he’s out. 

Quick, simple, easy.

This was the language Cassandra knew. The one she had lived her whole life “speaking.” The one David Cain taught her. 

There was a  _ swoosh _ , and the rustle of a cape falling back into place behind her. She smiled, turning to face Batman. 

She waved, he nodded. 

She held up the small bag of diamonds the thief was carrying, shaking it a bit for emphasis. 

Batman nodded again, patting her on the shoulder. 

He was proud of her. Cassandra  _ beamed.  _

*

As a child, she  _ knew _ that David Cain didn’t love her. She could read it all over him. Appreciation, yes. Maybe even respect. But not love. 

_ (She kicked the man in the stomach, hitting him squarely in the ribs. She turned, quickly chopping him in the throat. The man clutched at his neck, choking. She swiftly uppercut with her left fist, simultaneously kneeing his ribs. The man fell to the ground in a heap, unconscious.  _

_ Cassandra looked to David, expectant, looking for the praise all children desperately need.  _

_ It did not come.  _

_ David signaled for her to lift her leg higher next time, to move quicker.  _

_ Her face fell for a moment, but she steeled her jaw, straightening her back.  _

_ She would do better.  _

_ She would make him proud.) _

Cassandra was a weapon. A tool. A means to an end. 

Barbara Gordon was the first person to show her she was wanted and loved. 

Bruce Wayne was the second. 

Bruce showed her she was loved by giving her a home, a family, a place to belong. Bruce showed her she was loved by going to sign language classes with her, by taking her out for ice cream after patrol, by signing the adoption papers. 

Adoption. When Bruce told Cassandra what it meant, asking her if it was what she wanted, she immediately decided the word was one of the best in the English language. The entire concept was beautiful, especially to her. It was almost difficult for Cassandra to wrap her mind around sometime; someone wanted and loved her  _ so much _ that they wanted to make her their child. 

On the drive home from the courthouse, Cassandra couldn’t stop smiling. She looked up at Bruce, the childlike joy she felt radiating off her body like starlight and fireflies; warm, happy, content. 

She studied him for a moment. 

He looked back at her. 

He was  _ beaming.  _

She leaned over towards him, almost conspiratorially. He leaned in too. They were both still smiling. 

_ You’re my dad,  _ she signed. 

_ You’re my daughter,  _ he signed back. 

Cassandra didn’t know it was possible to be this happy. 


	2. dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Final Crisis #6, but as always, I am inconsistent with canon
> 
> attempt at angst, be ye warned

_ with every heartbeat i have left _

_ i'll defend your every breath _

_ i promise i'll do better _

Superman flew into the Batcave, carrying a large bundle in his arms. Dick looked up from the computer, smiling, the golden one that almost hurt to look at; sunbeams shining from his lips.

“Uncle Clark! What’s…” He trailed off, looking at what Clark was carrying. The smile vanished from his face, melted off with acid, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Where’s Bruce.”

The other man hung his head, silently floating over to one of the beds. He set whatever he was carrying down and— 

It was Bruce. 

Dick froze, horrified. 

“Clark,  _ what _ …” he wasn’t even sure when he’d started crying, but the tears stung his eyes and burned his cheeks.

“We—we have to do something,” Dick rushed over and started digging around in the med kits. The tears were blurring his vision, and he swiped at them angrily. He was stopped in his search by a strong hand on his shoulder. 

“Dick, there’s—we already tried…” Clark’s voice was thick with emotion. 

“No!” Dick growled and rushed over to Bruce’s body. He began shaking his shoulder. “Bruce. Wake up. C’mon, B. Get up! Dad...c’mon, Dad…” 

Dick clung to Bruce’s chest, sobbing quietly. “Papa?”

* 

_ “Bruce, wake up! B, c’mon, get up!”  _

_ Bruce cracked one eye open, squinting at the harsh light. He groaned as a fifty-something pound weight hurtled onto his stomach.  _

_ “Mmfgh, Dick!” he opened both his eyes, greeted with the sight of his young, bright eyed ward bouncing around on the bed.  _

_ “Get up, get up, get up! It’s already like, waaay late.” the boy flopped dramatically onto the fluffy pillows. Bruce glanced over at the clock; it was 9:00. Oh, the zoo trip. That’s why Dick was especially antsy.  _

_ “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he waved a hand, grunting as he sat up. The Penguin’s goons had not gone easy on his ribs last night. Choosing not to focus on the pain and instead the little boy next to him, Bruce asked, “So what animal do you want to see first, chum?”  _

__

_ Dick’s eyes lit up excitedly, and he began jumping around again.  _

_ “Well, I think we should go to the giraffe exhibit first, but I also wanna see the tigers, but the zebras are closest to the entrance so that’d probably the smartest place to start, and I wanna see Zitka, but I don’t know if we should go there last or first, ‘cause, y’know, saving the best for last and all? I think…” _

_ Bruce’s overloaded brain zoned out after a minute of Dick’s turbo speed, stream-of-consciousness rambling. He looked at the boy practically vibrating with excitement, and his heart was suddenly filled with a rush of emotion. How had he gotten so lucky? _

_ *  _

_ “B?” _

_ Bruce looked up at the doorway, where a small, pajama-clad figure was standing. He set down the book he was reading.  _

_ “What’s up, kid?” _

_ Dick sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He shuffled over to Bruce’s unreasonably large bed, climbing up and positioning himself under the man’s arm.  _

_ “Bad dream.” he whispered.  _

_ Bruce ran a hand over the boy’s hair soothingly.  _

_ “You wanna talk about it?” _

_ “I just thought that...that seeing Zitka would be nice...and...and help,” Dick sobbed, hiccuping.  _

_ Bruce’s chest tightened, instinctively holding Dick closer to himself.  _

_ “Chum, I’m so sorry--” _

_ “B, it’s not your fault, okay?”  _

_ He kissed the top of Dick’s head, slowly rocking them back and forth. They sat there for a while, Dick’s quiet crying the only sound to be heard. Finally, he looked up at Bruce, big blue eyes watery and red.  _

_ “I love you, Papa,” he breathed.  _

_ “I love you too, Dick. So, so much.” _

_ How had he gotten so lucky? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning lyrics from sleeping at last’s “light”  
> Sensing a theme? I may or may not be obsessed with his music...


	3. duke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Duke!! My boi deserves all the love and content he can get

_ what can i give that is all for you? _

_ these arms are all i have. _

Growing up an only child, Duke never considered himself lonely. He and his parents were close, confidantes even, and he had friends at his school. Duke never felt the desire or need for anything more. He wasn’t lonesome. After the whole Joker ordeal, however…

Coming to live with the Waynes was definitely an adjustment. Duke, for one, actually enjoyed silence sometimes. He found it peaceful. 

Suddenly being thrust into a family of five kids (plus one who wasn’t technically adopted, but basically lived there anyway), a brooding billionaire, a butler, two dogs, a cat, and a cow, add in the fact that this was  _ freakin’ Batman’s  _ family…it was like nothing Duke had ever experienced.

Even so, in all that noise and chaos, Duke felt utterly alone.

*

Months after he moved in, in the wake of a particularly intense fight with Mr. Freeze, Duke came down with a cold. 

Duke sat on his bed, absolutely burrito’d in blankets, a pile of kleenex next to him like a snow pile (not unlike the one Mr. Freeze buried him in), and an empty bowl of the best chicken soup he’d ever eaten on a tray beside him. 

There was a knock on his door. Duke paused the show he was watching, clearing his throat to call out in a raspy voice, “Come in.”

The door opened quietly, and Bruce stepped in. With his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, Bruce was the picture of uncertainty.  _ Why does he look nervous?  _ Duke wondered. 

“Hey, champ. How’re you feeling?” Bruce edged over to the bed, inclining his head to ask if he could sit down. 

Duke nodded, and described his symptoms to the man. 

“Hnn,” was his reply. 

They sat in silence for a bit, both feeling a little awkward. Bruce finally spoke up. 

“Do you need more medication?”

Duke shook his head, “Alfred’s got me covered.” He pointed to the small bottle of cold medicine on the bedside table. 

“Ah.” A pause. “Do you want something to drink?”

Duke, so as not to agitate his already raw throat, simply held up his bottle of Sprite, shaking it a bit. 

“Are you hungry?”

Bruce obviously wanted to help,  _ needed _ to help; saviour complex and all that, but he had no idea how to. Duke sighed. 

“No, Dad, I’m fi-” Duke stopped abruptly, immediately realising his mistake. “Uh, Bruce. I’m-I’m fine, Bruce.”

Bruce stared at the boy, his initial expression of shock quickly replaced with a carefully crafted face of distant surprise. 

“Duke, it’s alright-” 

“I-I don’t know why…” 

Bruce placed a comforting hand on Duke’s shoulder. 

“Really, it’s fine-”

“It’s not, though! Bruce, I...I already have a dad!” Duke felt the sudden and betraying sting of tears.  _ Not now. Not now!  _ “I have parents! I can’t just...They’re…”

Duke looked away, twisting out of Bruce’s grasp. 

“They’re not coming back. Are they?” he whispered, almost inaudibly. 

Bruce’s heart clenched. He knew exactly what Duke was feeling, and he hated it. He simply took Duke into his arms, and pulled him tightly to his chest. Duke immediately clung to Bruce, fingers clenched into the man’s sweater. Duke sat there, firmly held by Bruce, and sobbed. Duke had been adrift in a tumultuous sea of uncertainty for so long, but now, nose stuffy and fever burning, wrapped in blankets and his guardian’s arms, he realised something:

Bruce was his life-saver. 

Bruce was his anchor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell about DC and the batfam with me on tumblr!
> 
> Title taken from The Paper Kite’s “Arms”


	4. jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet!  
> TW for panic attacks, blood, and graphic depictions of violence.  
> It’s Jason, after all.  
> also possible OOC warning, because Jay and Bruce get along in this one. please, just accept it

_ close your eyes, _

_ have no fear. _

_ the monster’s gone,  _

_ he’s on the run, _

_ and your daddy’s here. _

_ beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, _

_ beautiful boy _

“Hood, incoming at your four o’clock.” Batman grunted, blocking a blow from the thug he was currently fighting. 

“I got it, B,” Red Hood fired two shots to his left, followed by the twin thuds of bodies hitting the floor. 

Bruce flinched imperceptibly. A strong punch to the kidneys finally took down the large criminal. He turned to see how Hood was doing and—

He was plunged into darkness. 

The lights cut out, not a big deal. He had night vision in his cowl, and so did Red Hood. But he couldn’t get a visual on the younger man. There were gunshots, momentarily flashing through the room, brightening it to a blinding level. 

A scream. A familiar scream. 

“Hood?” Batman called. No reply. He called again. This was too familiar—he was too late, too late again. He couldn’t save his—he couldn’t save Jason. Bruce began to breathe heavily as he felt the familiar tightness of  _ fear  _ settle in his chest.  _ Breathe. You’re no good to Jason if you’re panicking.  _

He fumbled with his belt,  _ damn his shaking hands _ , and procured a flashlight. 

Bruce scanned the room, light flickering over unconscious bodies. No visual on Jason. 

_ The warehouse was too far away, he was running and running but he wasn’t fast enough. Jason was in danger. Jason was stupid and reckless and disobeyed orders and he was in  _ danger _. Bruce was almost there, so close to the warehouse he could hear the sounds inside.  _

_ A loud beeping.  _

_ The warehouse exploded.  _

Bruce rushed about, turning over body after body, still no sign of his boy. Then, a flash of red in his periphery. He whipped around and  _ oh, there he is.  _

He ran over to his son’s body ( _ too familiar, too real _ ). The first thing he saw was blood. Pooling behind Jason’s back, around his prone body, seeping into the ground. So much blood…

_ When he reached Jason’s bod—when he reached Jason, the first thing he saw was blood. His suit was torn, fresh bruises covered his limbs, and there was blood everywhere. So much blood. Bruce fell to his knees, and vomited onto the dirt.  _

Bruce methodically checked Jason for broken bones, hands tenderly pressing into his ribs. He tried to push back the unwanted memories, the intrusive thoughts,  _ you couldn’t save him _ ,  _ and he _ —

Jason moved. He stirred, groaned, and halfway sat up. 

“Hiya, B,” he croaked. 

Bruce choked out a sigh of relief, but found his chest was too tight to catch a full breath. 

There was still too much blood on Jason, covering his jacket, splattered on his helmet. A head wound? A gunshot? He was bleeding out, he had to be. His son was dying ( again ) and Bruce could do nothing to stop it.

“Hey, woah, B. Breathe,” a voice,  _ Jason’s voice _ , cut through Bruce’s panic. 

Bruce opened his eyes ( _ when had he closed them?) _ , and looked up at Jason. 

He met the bright green eyes of his son, almost glowing with worry. The bloody jacket was gone, ripped off, laying in a heap on the floor beside them. The helmet was tossed some distance away. 

“Bruce,” he whispered, holding up his hands like one would to calm a frightened wild animal. “There’s no blood on me, I’m okay.”

Bruce scanned his face, read his body language. He wasn’t lying. 

There was no blood. 

“Hey, I’m coming closer now.” 

He shuffled forward on his knees until he was only inches away. 

“I’m gonna hold you, okay?”

Bruce nodded mutely, his head felt like it was full of cotton, and his mouth full of rocks. 

Jason gently wrapped his arms around Bruce, positioning the larger man’s head to rest on his shoulder. Jason rocked them back and forth slowly. Then, so softly Bruce almost had to strain to hear it, his son began to sing. 

“ _ Before you cross the street, take my hand. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans… _ ”

They stayed like this for minutes, for  _ hours.  _ And that was okay. 

*

_ “You have enough blankets?” Bruce finished tucking the ends around Jason’s feet, the quilt practically swallowing the skinny boy.  _

_ “Sheesh, if I had any more I’d suffocate!” _

_ Bruce chuckled and sat at the head of the bed, gently wrapping his arms around Jason.  _

_ “Do you want me to read a story?” He brushed an unruly curl out of Jason’s face, only for it to spring right back.  _

_ Jason swatted away his hand, huffing, “I’m not a  _ little kid _ , Pop.” _

_ That was his title. Bruce reveled in it.  _

_ “Okay, okay,” he smiled, playfully shoving at Jason’s side. “Scoot over, I’m falling off the bed.” _

_ Jason pushes back, attempting to fully remove the large man. Bruce didn’t budge.  _

_ “Brat,” he said, so,  _ so  _ affectionately.  _

_ Jason relented, moving another foot to accommodate his dad. He leaned onto Bruce’s shoulder, immediately relaxing when the man began brushing his fingers through the tangled curls.  _

__ He whispered something indecipherable to Bruce’s ears. 

_ “What’s that?” _

_ “I said, could you sing our song?” Jason’s large blue eyes met his, and Bruce melted, just a little.  _

_ He laid his son’s head on his shoulder and sang: _

_ “Out on the ocean, sailing away...I can hardly wait to see you come of age, but I guess we’ll both just have to be patient.” His voice vibrated in his chest, tickling Jason’s ear. The boy grinned.  _

_ “Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day, in every way, it’s getting better and better. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.” _

_ Bruce meant every word.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind words, kudos, and bookmarks so far!! I love you all and your insights mean the world to me! 💛
> 
> Lyrics taken from John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy”


	5. damian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is folks! My favourite chapter :)   
> Warnings for canonical child abuse and general hate for Ra’s al Ghul. I very much do not like that man. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ you are an artist _

_ but your heart is your masterpiece  _

_ and i’ll keep it safe  _

When Damian showed up, Bruce already had three children. Naturally, he thought he had some idea of how to parent a child. He was wrong. 

Damian didn't require so much parenting as he did policing. The early days were filled with many exhortations of “we don’t kill people, Damian, that would make us no better than criminals,” and then the inevitable “but,  _ Father _ !”

Father. That was another adjustment for Bruce. He was used to his sons calling him versions of his name, or even the occasional “Dad”, or, in Dick’s case, “Papa”. But then this tiny Bruce showed up, brandishing sharp swords and a sharper tongue, calling him “Father”.

One of the first things Bruce noticed about his son was that seemed so old, much too adult for his age. 

Once, when he wasn’t allowed to drive the Batmobile on patrol, he’d simply stated,

“I’ve been driving since I was six.”

That was Damian’s typical response to anything Bruce wouldn’t let him do, with the age he had mastered the task at decreasing each time. Bruce knew he was exaggerating most of the time, but there was most likely a grain of truth in the small boy’s bold statements. Being raised as an Al Ghul, assassin, and son of Batman, Damian was held to the highest standards; he was to be the perfect child, so he wasn’t allowed to be one. Damian told Bruce about his almost brutal training with the League, but he spoke with the highest regard. It was as if he saw nothing wrong with his time there. 

Bruce hated it. 

Sometimes, he wondered, if he had raised Damian from birth, would anything be different? 

Or would he be the same: a scarred, angry, cynical soldier. 

Another child enlisted into his never ending war on crime. 

Another child he couldn’t keep safe.

Bruce rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the stubble from his shaving neglect for the past couple of days. He reached for his coffee, taking a sip. His face contorted into a grimace when he tasted that it was cold and stale. How long had he been down here? 

He checked the time. It was 2:30 and he was nowhere closer to cracking this case. He sighed, rechecking the security cams from the night of he murder. Still, nothing. 

Not thinking, he took another drink of his coffee. He immediately spat it out and trudged upstairs to make some more. 

*

Crime was slow that night, an amazing feat for Gotham. Batman and Robin sat on the rooftop of a meat-packing warehouse, waiting for a late-night shipment to arrive. The Gotham PD had gotten a tip that the meat was being packed full of heroin, and naturally, the Department had asked for their help. 

The delivery truck was late.

Damian filled the time animatedly informing Bruce of his favourite types of swords and their unique pros and cons.

Bruce knew a bit of what he was talking about, so he was able to make the occasional informed comment, but mostly he looked at his son, awed at his behaviour. Damian had a childlike energy, hands waving excitedly as he explained the difference between a kodachi and a wakizashi in great detail..

His kid was actually acting like a kid in his own way. Bruce loved it.

Midway through his extensive monologue on the many different kinds of katanas, Damian looked over at Bruce, giant grin on his face. His heart leapt at seeing his son so purely happy.

*

Bruce leaned against the counter, the soft bubbling of brewing coffee relaxing him to the edge of sleep. He methodically fixed his drink, adding two teaspoons of cream just like he had for the past ten years, stirring it three times to the left, four to the right. He was about to head back down to the cave, when the hurried patter of small feet disrupted his thoughts. 

Damian flew into the kitchen, hardly touching the floor as he ran. He had that same joyful expression from earlier. Bruce hid a smile by taking a drink.

“Baba! You’ll never guess—“

Bruce thanked whatever deity there was that he did not choke. Damian, full of pride and dignity, didn’t acknowledge his misstep, moving right along. It was as if a mask came across his face, whatever childish feelings he had before immediately replaced with a serious resolve. He spoke as if he was giving a mission report to a commanding officer.

Bruce  _ hated _ Ra’s al Ghul.

“Father, I believe I have found who is behind the heroin smuggling ring—“

Damian stopped abruptly when Bruce knelt down to his level, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Damian, you know you don’t have to call me Father, right? Baba is completely oka—“

The boy brushed his hand away, turning nonchalantly.

“Of course I know that, Father. I…” he trailed off, his guard coming down momentarily, large green eyes filling with what looked like hope. “You’re sure?”

Bruce almost laughed at the sudden change in sentiment, but refrained due to the sheer sincerity in his son’s face. He took his shoulders again.

“I’m sure,” he said with great conviction, and pulled Damian into a hug. 

He immediately latched on; hugs were a prized treasure for him, in their rarity. Damian would never admit that, of course. 

“Alright, Baba,” he paused, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. “I’ll only call you that on occasion. So as to keep it special, of course.” 

He let go of his father, standing up straight and looking him in the eye. Bruce’s eyes gleamed as he leaned in conspiratorially, nodding. 

“Oh, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, if you all have any suggestions for Tim’s chapter or Steph’s, I would love to hear them in the comments! I’m kinda stumped :/
> 
> I love you all!! 💛💛


	6. tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT!!! Life, as you all probably know, is crazy. And writers block is a bastard. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is none editing, left proofreading so if y’all see any typos please don’t hesitate to call me out :)
> 
> Lyrics at beginning from “Pink Confetti” by Towr’s, it’s a beautiful song that definitely deserves a listen

_ you were a harvest in a full moon _

_ a light in the dark to see me through _

_ and take myself less serious _

_ it's not like the fear was gone _

_ and you were finally in my arms _

_ the way a fire burns and also warms _

__

Bruce’s individual relationships with each of his children were, as expected, unique from each other. But Bruce’s relationship with Tim...it was hard to name. 

Tim was one of the brightest minds Bruce had ever encountered. He was constantly in a state of soft awe whenever Tim came to him with a quickly solved case, or a complex code he cracked, or even just an album of his photography.

Some of Bruce’s favourite moments were in the quiet hours of the night, sitting at the Batcomputer, Tim next to him, both quietly puzzling over the latest case. 

When Tim came into his life, there was a gaping hole torn through him. A Jason-sized mark that would and could never be filled. 

Tim helped him stay sane. 

Tim helped him stay  _ alive.  _

He did everything Robin was supposed to do, but he became so much more than just a Robin. He carved out and filled his own hole in Bruce’s life, something neither of them fully expected. 

Bruce felt that maybe, there was a chance he could be okay again. Tim gave him that hope. 

Then Jason came back.

Then Damian showed up. 

After that, Bruce saw Tim retreat into himself, becoming more sullen and reserved than he had ever seen the boy. 

It was rare to see him look relaxed or rested, the divot between his eyebrows approaching permanence. The dark circles under his eyes would be almost comical, if they weren’t shocking symbols of his self-inflicted overwork and lack of sleep. 

Bruce did what he could, as gently as he could, to help Tim, to little avail. Sometimes, much too often for his liking, Bruce would get up in the morning and find that Tim hadn’t yet gone to bed. 

Bruce didn’t know why this was happening, but at the same time he did. It was obvious that Damian and Tim didn’t get along, their bickering becoming an expected background noise when the manor’s inhabitants were together. After more consideration, Bruce found the boys seemed to be competing for his attention. Why, he didn’t know. He always made sure to divide his time and love evenly between all of his children. 

...didn’t he?

Maybe he was a little busier than usual, but that was due to more cases, which he worked together with Tim. Tim loved that, right? 

Right?

Bruce was beginning to doubt it. 

He made up his mind to ask Tim about it, but casually so he wouldn’t think something was amiss. 

He brought it up two nights later. 

“Oh, hey Bruce,” Tim glanced up from his computer as the man walked into the bedroom. Tim was hunched over his desk, ever-present cup of coffee next to his arm. Bruce shuffled awkwardly for a few moments, before deciding to sit down on the bed behind Tim. He sat, nervously clearing his throat, and suddenly Tim’s full attention was on him. 

“What’s up?”

_ Well there goes casual.  _ Bruce decided to cut straight to the point. 

“Tim, you...enjoy solving cases, correct?”

Tim’s eyebrows twisted, and he snorted out a confused laugh. 

“Of course I do! Being Rob—uh, crime fighting with you is like, the best thing ever.”

Bruce exhaled, relieved. He patted his knees once, nodded, and stood. Tim snorted again, and turned back to his laptop. 

As Bruce placed his hand on the doorknob to exit, he felt something tugging at him, telling him to say something else. He turned back.

“You know...I...love you.” He half asked, half stated. 

Tim looked bemused again. Bruce, undeterred, continued. 

“And nothing,  _ nothing  _ you do can change that. And...you don’t—don’t have to  _ do  _ anything to,” _ why were words so hard sometimes?  _ Bruce wondered, frustrated. “To make me love you more. I already...love you immeasurably.” 

Tim’s expression quickly shifted from confused to dumbfounded. He nodded wordlessly. Bruce echoed the gesture and walked to the door again. 

He hesitated at the knob yet again, and there was that tug again. He took a steadying breath. 

“Tim, as you know, you’re legally my son. But I realise that you also have other parents, so it’s understandable if—what I’m trying to say is…” he trailed off, imploring his brain to come up with the right words. “It’s okay if you call me Dad. I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. Jack—“

Bruce was cut off abruptly by a sudden weight pressing against his chest, and wiry arms wrapping around his back.

“Bruce, Jack...he was my father.” Tim looked up at him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

Bruce held him tighter. He buried his face into Bruce’s chest, and whispered, words muffled by layers of fabric:

“But you’re my dad.” 

And Bruce smiled, feeling, for the first time in a long time, at peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t this chapters biggest fan. I absolutely ADORE Tim, but this was somehow super hard to write!   
> Anyway, I love you all!!! No promises on how soon the next chapter will be up, but I’m obviously less busy now, so it’ll probably be sooner than the last 😂  
>  💛💛💛💛💛


	7. stephanie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been....83 years.....and...FINALLY A NEW CHAPTER  
> (this one CRACKS ME UP solely because it is MUCH longer than all the others lmao I just couldn't stop myself oof)
> 
> have some self indulgent steph and bruce interactions

_ out of all the things that i regret, _

_ honey you are not one of them _

Bruce, like any parent of multiple children, was used to loud noises and the sounds of his children yelling. Through his many years of parenting, he’d learned to tune out the daily cacophony of the manor’s inhabitants. Despite all of this, the sudden shouting that erupted in the room next door startled him. 

“Buzz off, bird brain!” in an angry female voice (it was Stephanie, then) followed by the loud crash of a slamming door caused Bruce to flinch.

He set his reading glasses on his desk, back cracking as he stood, and went to assess the situation. 

He caught sight of Stephanie storming down the hallway, presumably heading towards the guest room she’d claimed. He listened outside the library door, and when he didn’t hear any yelling, crying, or groaning, he decided that going after Stephanie was the more pressing matter. 

Bruce headed up the large staircase, fingers tapping on the railing as he slowly walked, giving himself enough time to run through what to say. 

He arrived at the large oak door, (even if Bruce hadn’t known which room Stephanie would go to, the pillow-muffled screaming was a dead giveaway), and he knocked, shave-and-a-haircut. 

“Go away!” She yelled, still muffled from the pillow. 

In his years of crime fighting, Bruce had been involved in many explosions, loud noises, and punches to the head. Because of all this, his hearing wasn’t as good as it used to be. But, even so, it was surprisingly better than most people gave him credit for. All that to say, Bruce clearly heard that the curses and names mumbled in his direction after Stephanie finished yelling. 

He knocked again. 

“Stephanie, it’s me.”

There was a sudden thud, followed by a swear, the sound of scrambling across the floor, and the door flung open. Stephanie was wiping at her red rimmed eyes with her over-long sleeve. 

She sniffed. 

“Uh, hey, what’s up?” she tried to sound casual, but her voice warbled in the middle of the sentence, giving her away. 

“May I come in?”

Stephanie’s eyes widened slightly, the faintest sign of confusion on her brow. 

“Sure. Yeah, sure, come in.” She shuffled into the room, tossing random articles of clothing into a chair, and attempted to straighten the comforter. 

Bruce stared at a bright yellow spot on the floor. Stephanie noticed and blanched. 

“Oh, um, yeah. I sorta spilled nail polish when I got up to open the door.” She hurried into the en-suite bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth. “Here lemme just—”

She dabbed the stain aggressively, sniffling. She made a small growling sound in the back of her throat when the nail polish only embedded in self further into the carpet. 

“Stephanie, wait. You don’t—”

Her head whipped up to look at him, eyes almost wild. The tears caught the light, shining against the pink of her cheeks. 

Bruce knelt down next to her, placing his hand over hers on the washcloth. 

“It’s alright. It’s just a carpet.” He smiled and put as much sincerity as he could into his voice to ensure that she’d believe him. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Whatever.” 

She laughed, a little hysterically, and sat back on her heels. She brushed the hair out of her face. “It’s just a carpet.”

She stood abruptly and all but threw herself on the bed. Bruce sat back on his heels, picking up the discarded rag and tossed it into the laundry basket. He looked up at Stephanie, staring intently at her phone. 

“Downstairs…” Bruce trailed off. She glanced up at him. Blew a curl away from her face. “I heard—” 

A glare from Stephanie silenced him. He’d return to this discussion later, Bruce decided. 

Steph reached over to the nightstand where she deposited the nail polish, and began to paint her nails again. Bruce noticed the slight tremor in her hands, causing the polish to run onto her fingers. 

“Here,” Bruce stood, wincing as his knees popped loudly. He took the bottle from Stephanie, sitting opposite her on the bed. 

“What…?” 

Bruce reached out, wiggling his fingers as a signal for her to give him her hand. She complied, looking a mix between confusion and amusement. 

He began to gently apply the polish, hands mercifully steady. After a few minutes, Stephanie broke the comfortable silence they’d fallen into. 

“You wanna do a facemask or something? I’m stressed, you’re always stressed. I think it’d help.” 

Bruce was cleaning the messy edges with polish remover and a cotton swab. 

“Facemask?”

Stephanie gaped at him for a moment, but once she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes she lightly whacked him on the shoulder. 

“Oh, you little—!”

Bruce smiled, a light quirk of the lips. 

“With skin like that, you probably have, like, a twenty step routine,” she scoffed.

They were quiet again. After a while Bruce spoke.

“It’s only seven. Dermatologists only recommend a few steps. Better for the skin.”

Stephanie, caught off guard, snorted. Loudly. Bruce smiled a bit more. “But yes, I’d love to do facemasks with you.”

Stephanie’s nails were dry by now, sunshine-bright.  _ Like her smile _ , Bruce thought. 

*

“You want a charcoal sheet mask or a mango peel off?” Steph shouted from the bathroom as Bruce scrolled through movie options. She poked her head out. 

“Have you done a peel off before? Super fun. We’re doing peel offs.”

Bruce just nodded, selecting some harmless-looking baking show he knew the kids watched. 

*

“He over-proofed it. The bread’s gummy.” Bruce mumbled. 

Stephanie made a noise of agreement, eating another handful of skittles.

“The crust looks good, though. The judges’ll like it.”

Bruce nodded, scratching at his face. Stephanie swatted his hand away without taking her eyes off the TV.

“Stop that, you’ll tear the mask.”

* 

“How are your nails so nice? Dude, seriously.” She turned his hand back and forth admiringly. 

“Stephanie, contrary to your brothers’ beliefs, I do practice self care.”

She hummed and layered on another coat of black polish onto his fingernails. Then, the brush paused in midair. 

Bruce looked away from the television, meeting her eyes. 

“Wait, you said…”

Immediately, Bruce realised his error. He squared his jaw and angled his body toward her. 

“I meant—”

She held up a finger, effectively silencing him.

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.” 

She quieted, painting his ring finger. 

“I’ve been really stressed lately,” she practically whispered. “Well, you probably already knew that. Detective skills.”

Steph smiled lamely up at him. 

“I just keep thinking, what if rehab doesn’t work for Mom? Y’know, what if she relapses and everything starts all over again? What if—” she cut herself off, aggressively swiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Your mother is at the best rehabilitation facility in the tri-state area, Stephanie. I made sure of it. She’s getting good care there. What she does with the care is up to her, but I know she wants to get better. For you.”

She nodded, chin quivering.

Bruce turned back to the show. 

“That sourdough doesn’t have nearly enough holes.”

Stephanie abruptly laughed, and to Bruce, it was one of the best sounds he’d ever heard. 

*

After an hour of peacefully enjoying each other’s company, commenting every so often on this or that bake, Stephanie began to tap her fingers on the bowl of popcorn in her lap.

Bruce, used to a house full of nervous and/or hyperactive children, thought nothing of it. That is, until she began to look like she was going to throw up. Bruce’s eyebrows knitted together. He lightly nudged her shoulder.

“What’s up?”

She grabbed the remote and pressed pause, something neither of them had done in the past two or so hours of watching and talking. 

“I just...I keep thinking how you called them...when you said that the boys are... _ my  _ brothers. Like, I know you didn’t mean to say that, and I know I’m not your kid or anything, but…”

She trailed off, as her shoulders began to shake. 

Bruce froze. 

“Ah, sorry, I’m sorry. Whatever, let’s just—” Stephanie tried to play it off. 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She instantly melted into the hug, resting her head against his chest and grabbing a fistful of his shirt.

They stayed like this for a long time, Bruce just holding her as she let it all out. He didn’t care if she got tears or snot on his shirt, it was replaceable. She wasn’t. 

“I’m...proud of you. You know that…?” Bruce spoke, and his voice felt thick from under-use. Or something else, he wasn’t sure. “And I want you to know that I don’t regret—” he paused, confused as to why he was fighting against a lump in his throat. “I’m just trying to say that I’m glad you’re a part of our family.”

Stephanie sniffled, wrapping her arms tighter around him. 

“Woah there, don’t strain yourself with all this emotions talk.”

He let out a watery chuckle and flicked her shoulder lightly. 

“Y’know, you’re the closest thing I have to a dad,” she said so quietly that Bruce almost didn’t hear. He nodded, hoping she could feel his movement, because he didn’t trust his voice right then.

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “I know.”

And despite their complicated relationship, how Bruce was always reminded of each time he’d failed her, of all their disagreements and fights, in this moment, he felt like things would get better. He would always be there for her where Arthur Brown had failed. That was the important part. 

He hugged his daughter close to his chest, picked up the remote, and pressed play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song at the beginning from "girl in calico" by Tow'rs (the chorus reminds me of them so much and that line specifically makes me cry sooo)
> 
> okay cass is not mentioned when bruce says "your brothers" only because he was talking about how the boys don't think he does self care, but Cass knows full well Bruce gets manicures and stuff because they do spa days together. (i was just worrying about not mentioning her so i felt the need to let y'all know the reason (and also that I love her))
> 
> The next chapter might take a bit to crank out, but it's gonna be about Alfred and Bruce!!! So I'm excited. (after that chapter, it'll be the epilogue and I'll be doneee, idk how to feel about that)
> 
> Reviews are totally appreciated! I always respond <3


	8. bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY A NEW CHAPTER!!!  
> thank you to [lindenrosetps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenrosetps/pseuds/lindenrosetps) for the comment from forever ago, that mentioned heirloom by sleeping at last, and thus inspired this chapter!!
> 
> This is, as always, unbeta'd and barely edited XD if anyone is interested in beta reading for me, hit me up at my [tumblr!](https://succulents-and-fairy-lights.tumblr.com)

_ you try your hardest to leave the past alone, _

_ this crooked posture is all you've ever known. _

_ it is the consequence of living in between _

_ the weight of family and the pull of gravity. _

_ you are so much more than your father's son. _

Alfred Pennyworth, from a young age, was filled with a deep-set detastation of phone calls. Differing from the average mildly asocial Brit, his dislike stemmed from the less than ideal news shared in late-night calls. His father’s death, his subsequent hiring by the Waynes, their...deaths. As Batman’s partner, butler, and friend, he lay awake every night, comlink at the ready, just waiting. 

That night, he and Bruce got into a bit of a disagreement before he left for patrol. 

“Master Bruce,” he said in such a harsh way that Bruce physically took a step back. “I  _ cannot  _ allow you to leave in this condition. You’re clearly not well. You’ve bloody head trauma, for God’s sake!”

If Bruce were a lesser man, this kind of berating from Alfred would cause him to cower and run. Bruce, gifted from a young age with infuriating obstinance and a surprisingly hard head (both metaphorically and physically), was not a lesser man. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need your permission, then.” Bruce said, putting on his helmet like a petulant child. With a swirl of his cape, he marched off toward the Batmobile. 

*

He got the call at three in the morning. 

“Hey, Al?”

Alfred shot up and out of bed, immediately shoving the comlink into his ear.

“Master Richard?” Alfred didn’t know Dick was in Gotham tonight.

“Uh, hold on a sec…” there was a slight scuffling on the other end, a distinctly Bruce grunt, and the sound of the car starting up. “I’m back.”

“What happened?”

“Crane has some new gas...it’s...it’s pretty nasty. And we don’t...I don’t know if we have the antiserum.”

He heard mumbling on the other end, and Dick sighed.

“No, B. I’m...It’s Dick. Not…” he trailed off. 

“ETA?” Alfred cut in.

“Twenty minutes.”

Alfred immediately set to work.

When he helped with the household chores as a child, his mother always prayed while she worked. She prayed over the rooms of their house, prayers for God’s provision for their little family, even prayers of thanksgiving over the trifles on the mantelpiece. His mother’s life was punctuated by prayer. And when her boy ran off to join the army, she kept a constant vigil of prayer for his protection. 

Watching her float around the house, feather duster clutched firmly in hand, eyes twinkling as she whispered prayers. The memories of cleaning with his mother were gold around the edges: tinged with happiness, warmth, and some kind of bittersweet feeling. When he came into the employ of the Wayne’s, Alfred took to reciting his mother’s prayers as he went. It felt right. 

He rushed to the hallway outside the den, whispering under his breath, turning the hands of the ancient clock.

“Saviour of the world, be present in all places of suffering, violence and pain, and bring hope even in the darkest night.”

Down in the cave, he prepared the medbay, setting out the necessary supplies for sutures. 

“Great Physician, stretch out your hand to bring comfort, wholeness and peace to all who suffer in body, mind, or spirit.”

He opened the cabinet containing the many antidotes and antiserums acquired over the years of Batman’s existence, his hands shaking as he drew out all vials labelled ‘fear gas.’

“Fill us with compassion, that we may be channels of your healing love.”

“Al!” Dick jumped out of the car, with all of the grace he always possessed. Alfred hurried over to assist the boy in extracting Bruce. 

He couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath when he saw him.

The cowl was off, his hair sweaty and plastered to his head, his eyes were bright with fever, the dark circles underneath looking carved into his face. His dilated pupils darted around, trying to discern the imaginary from the concrete. All in all, an obvious fear gassing. 

They guided him over to the cot, and Alfred began washing and stitching the nicks and cuts while Dick searched for and mixed up a new antiserum. 

Bruce’s eyes locked into Alfred’s suddenly, sharp and sad. 

“Alfie...” Oh, he hadn’t used that name in quite a while. “Jason,” Bruce choked out. “Jason’s  _ gone. _ I was too late.”

“I know, I know.” Alfred gently brushed away the escaping tear and thin layer of grime on his face. Bruce passed back into intelligible delirium. Alfred took his hand, clasped between both of his own. 

“Let us commend ourselves, and all for whom we pray, to the mercy and protection of God.”

*

The periods of confusion and then clarity continued on for hours, Alfred and Dick working together as quickly as possible, alternating between chemistry and comforting the sick man.

He wiped the sweat away from Bruce’s eyes, the line between his eyes deepening as his...as Bruce mumbled feverishly. 

“Wh...Dad? Where—”

Alfred’s heart sank. Visions of his parents were never a good thing, an unwelcome addition to an already long night. 

“Bruce, he’s—” Alfred gently placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and his eyes snapped up.

“Oh, there you are.” he smiled weakly.

He felt a horrible tightness in his chest and throat, fighting against some mixture of fear, pain, and anger at Scarecrow for causing this. 

“No, Master Bruce, I…” he stopped. He didn’t know what possessed him at that moment, and for years to come he still didn’t, but in that moment, it felt like the right thing to do. He took Bruce’s hand.

“I’m here, Bruce.” 

“ _ Dad. _ ” he breathed, reaching up for Alfred, looking like a lost child. 

“Oh, darling,” he took his son into his arms. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“My dear boy, whatever for?”

“I’ve failed you...I keep failing you. I don’t listen, I-I make stupid mistakes and—I’m so sorry.” he sobbed, nearing hiccups. 

“You have never disappointed or failed me.  _ Never _ .” he kept repeating that, over and over, cheek resting against the top of Bruce’s head. 

It was an odd feeling, holding this fully-grown man who was clinging to him for dear life. All he could do was hold tighter and chant reassurances.

“Help and comfort the lonely, the bereaved and the oppressed. Lord, have  _ mercy _ .” 

*

Neither of them mentioned that night, resuming their relationship acting as if it never happened. Until, years later, after another fear toxin scare, Alfred brought it up. 

“You...you thought that I was your father, that night. And, God forgive me, I didn’t have the heart to tell you. So I...I played along.”

“Al,” Bruce reached over, putting a hand on his knee. “I know.”

Alfred looked up, eyebrows raising in the slightest. 

“I didn’t see my fath—well, actually, I saw my father. But I didn’t see Thomas.”

“Bruce...what does—what does that mean?”

“I think you know,” Bruce’s eyes twinkled, then turned serious. “Thank you, by the way. You did a pretty damn good job of raising me, awful as I was.” He laughed as his chin wobbled. “And still am.”

They sat in silence for a bit, formulating and sifting through their thoughts together. 

“Do you think they’d be disappointed in me? Who I’ve become?”

“Oh, my sweet boy,” he breathed. “In every moment they had with you, they were so, so proud of you. They loved you more than anything. And, for what it matters, so do I.”

Bruce sighed, and smiled at him, eyes full of tender happiness. 

“I love you too, Dad.”

_ God our creator, _

_ I thank you for the gift of this child, _

_ entrusted to my care. _

_ May I be patient and understanding, _

_ ready to guide and to forgive, _

_ so that through our love,  _

_ he may come to know your love.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prayers are traditional ones from the church of england (which is the denomination i hc alfred as)
> 
> I liked parts of this chapter, but not most of it, so tell me what you think! if you loved it, if you hated it, whatever! :D 
> 
> thank you all so much for reading!!  
> I can't believe there's just the epilogue left now! Love you guys!!


	9. epilogue (+ harper and cullen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry it took this long omg writers block is a bastard  
> This chapter is fucking LONG so that’s my excuse I guess lmao
> 
> Warning for mentions of blood and a slightly graphic description of someone dying. If you want to skip, stop reading at “his father reaches over” and start reading at “most times, though”
> 
> EDIT: 12/28/20 I AM UN IDIOTE. I was rereading this chapter on here and realized i accidentally left out HALF OF THE CHAPTER WHAT THE HELL. so anyway the chapter is back now and i hope that it hasn't messed up some of y'alls reading experience. love you all <3

_with every heartbeat i have left,_

_i’ll defend your every breath_

_i promise i’ll do better_

_i will soften every edge,_

_hold the world to it’s best_

_i promise i’ll do better_

From the time he was eight years old, Bruce had a recurring nightmare, it’s content and frequency changing over time, but the message was the same: you were, are, and always will be alone. The nightmare usually went something like this:

_At the beginning, he always finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Glock 19, not a unique or special model by any means, but Bruce remembers it nevertheless. It fires; the gunshots are so loud. One, two...Bruce keeps his eyes clenched shut, terrified, confused, waiting for the third shot. It doesn’t come. He hears the thump of retreating footsteps, and he opens his eyes. In the dream, every time Bruce opens his eyes, he does everything within his power to close them again. But it never happens._

Sometimes, when he opened his eyes, his parents were still alive. 

_His father reaches over, grabbing at his leg. Bruce doesn’t know why, but he jerks away. His mother is gasping for air, a disgusting gurgling sound as blood rapidly fills her lungs. He feels sick._

Most times, though, whenever he finally opened his eyes, his parents were already dead. 

_Their bodies are still warm but their eyes are glassy. A tear trails down his mother’s cheek, and it looks like the jewels that she used to wear to parties, glinting in the light._

As the years went on, his parents’ bodies were replaced: by Alfred, by Leslie, by Clark, by his kids. 

Whatever the special guest or variation of his dreamscape, the outcome is the same: Bruce Wayne was always left, sitting in a pool of congealing blood, bitterly alone. 

Years after the Wayne’s murder, with the combined help of time and therapy, the nightmare happened less and less often. However, it always reappeared before Father’s Day.

_Blue mixed with red makes purple. Blue hair, red blood...purple? No, that’s not how it works. Bright blue hair, so blue...his eyes hurt._

_He stumbles forward, and trips over something. Another body. It—the body is facedown on the pavement. He turns it over and—_

_The air rushes out of his lungs like he’s been hit by a train._

_Harper...and Cullen—_

His eyes opened abruptly. _Well, that’s new._

Bruce had just enough time to sit up before there was a knock, the door flung open, and a veritable horde flooded into his bedroom. They, as always, were all talking at once. 

“Did you just wake up?”

“We made you breakfast!”

“I made sure Todd didn’t burn the toast, Father.”

“The coffee is kinda cold, but it—”

“I told him not to—”

“Ew, put on a shirt!”

Bruce’s head, still reeling from the dream, was not helped by the cacophony of voices. A sudden weight on the bed beside him alerted Bruce to Cassandra’s presence. 

_You okay?_ she signed, handing him a t-shirt. 

He nodded, putting it on. She pursed her lips. Bruce knew she wouldn’t believe his lie, but this wasn’t the best time to discuss things. Cass tilted her head, lightly pressing the line in between his eyebrows. He smiled tightly, brushing away her hand, as if to say _‘Not now.’_ Cassandra, as she always did, understood. She nestled into his side, placing his arm protectively around her shoulders. 

Bruce looked up, at last counting who exactly were his room invaders. He was pleasantly surprised to find that all of his children were in attendance, plus Stephanie (who everyone knew was one of Bruce’s kids). Except—

“Where are Harper and Cullen?” he looked up into the crowd of faces, his expression pleasantly expectant. 

Dick and Tim made eye contact, and Tim shrugged imperceptibly. Jason took the awkward silence as an opportunity to set the food-laden tray down on Bruce’s lap.

Bruce nodded his thanks. Jason nodded back, smiling ever so slightly. _That’s never going to get old._

“Well, uh, it is Father’s Day, and, uh. They’re not, y’know—” Tim shuffled his feet.

Oh. _Oh._

“Ah, right. Yes.” He smiled and looked down at the plate in front of him. The toast was, just as Damian promised, unburnt. The eggs were another story. 

“Thank you all so much.”

Dick sat down on Bruce’s other side, and as if it were some sort of signal, the rest of the children piled onto the bed. 

“We made cards!” Duke passed Bruce his glasses, along with a surprisingly tall stack of cards. 

*

“I’m telling you, my card was _obviously_ his favorite! It made him cry!” 

“They _all_ made him cry, Jason.”

Stephanie had a point. 

“I loved your card, Jason. Thank you,” Bruce suddenly came up beside Jason, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and kissed his temple. Jason blushed and ducked his head. 

“Ah, gee, Pops,” he mumbled. Bruce just grinned, satisfied. 

“Cuuutteee,” Stephanie drew out the word, eyes sparkling with mirth. Bruce turned to her, extending an arm. 

“Get over here.”

“Oh, now wait a minute,” she held up a finger, backing away.

“Nah, nah, Blondie, you’re not getting outta this,” Jason joined in, loosely grabbing her wrist and pulling her in. She rolled her eyes and joined their embrace, head resting on Bruce’s chest.

“A group hug? Oh, _hell_ yeah!” Duke’s voice broke out from across the room, and suddenly the hug had three more participants. 

“C’mon Dami,” Tim gestured to the boy standing awkwardly to the side. 

“What...do I do?”

“You hold and are held,” Cass smiled, and tugged him close. 

Standing unnoticed in the doorway, Alfred quietly snapped a picture. He would cherish that photo for years.

*

Later, after Alfred was kicked out of the kitchen for trying to prepare lunch, (“It counts as Grandfather’s Day too, Alfie!’ Dick insisted. The others nodded solemnly.) he wandered around for a bit; something he never did, before finally entering the first floor den. He found Bruce on the couch, lounging against the arm, reading some paperwork.

“Put that away, my boy. It’s a day of rest.” Alfred chided lightly, coming to sit down beside him. Bruce took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked up at Alfred, and his smile was so blindingly bright it almost knocked the breath out of the older man. He was immediately reminded of Bruce as a boy, all gap-toothed grins and rambunctious spirit. Maybe he hadn’t changed all that much, Alfred mused for a moment. Underneath the world-hardened exterior, the little boy Alfred raised still shone through in times like these. He reached up and patted the side of Bruce’s face.

“Happy Father’s Day, Al.” 

“Happy Father’s Day to you as well, Bruce.” 

Bruce, overcome with a sudden wave of something (was it affection? Happiness?) leaned his head on Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred stiffened momentarily, but quickly relaxed. He patted Bruce’s knee once, twice.

They sat like that, quiet, content, until the kids rushed in, demanding their presence for lunch.

*

“Tim,” Bruce said after lunch, pulling him aside. “Do you think Cullen and Harper would _want_ to come? I...I know I’m not their father, and I don’t want to presume but...well, you and Duke know them the best.”

If Tim didn’t know better he’d say that Bruce looked almost sheepish. 

“Hey, I’m sure they’d love to come. I’ll have Duke text them, okay?”

Bruce imperceptibly exhaled, his equivalent of a huge sigh.

“Okay.”

*

“Holy—” Harper woke up in a cold sweat, just like she had for the past few days. _It’s not real, he’s not_ —

She glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. 1:32, blinked the green light. She stopped herself midway through a moment of panic by remembering that it was Sunday. Oh. Sunday. That makes sense. 

The nightmares always got worse around Father’s Day. It was a stupid holiday, in Harper’s professional opinion. She wiped the condensation off of her forehead, hands shaking as she did. _It’s not real, he’s not here, it’s not freaking_ — 

“Harper?” A knock sounded on the thin door, rattling it ever so slightly. 

“Hey, Cullen,” she called. Putting on the sweater closest to her bed, she walked over and unlocked the door. Cullen was standing, hip cocked to the side, concern laced in those puppy dog eyes of his. 

“You okay? I heard—” 

She ruffled his hair and walked past him into the kitchen.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” her lips tightened into the closest thing to a smile she could muster. Cullen did not look convinced.

“Whatever you say,” a sigh. He gestured to the counter. “I made pancakes.”

_Oh, heck yeah._ Harper kissed the top of his head, and quickly grabbed two plates out of the cabinet. 

*

**_Duke:_ **

_Hey, you n cullen want to come over later today?_

_B is wondering_

**_Me:_ **

_Like, for dinner?_

**_Duke:_ **

_Yeah, but you can come earlier to hang out and stuff_

_Y’know. For father’s day_

  
  


Father’s Day? Why would Bruce want her and Cullen over for Father’s Day? Unless…

Well, she didn’t have time to unpack all that. 

**_Me:_ **

_Sure :) we’ll be there in a couple hours_

**_Duke:_ **

_Great!_

_lmaooo Bruce looked so relieved when i told him_

**_Me:_ **

_dsajkfds nerd_

**_Duke:_ **

**** _he really loves you guys, you know that right?_

  
  


Oh. _Oh._

  
  


**_Duke:_ **

_U there?_

**_Me:_ **

_Cool cool, I’ll see ya soon!_

Harper shut off her phone. Perfect. Emotional crisis averted. 

“Hey, guess what?” She yelled in the direction of Cullen’s room. “We’re going to Wayne Manor for dinner.”

A muffled thump and a squawk of “WHAT?” immediately followed.

“Hurry up, you dork! We gotta leave soon!” She pounded on their shared wall, smiling to herself.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

*

Driving up the stupidly long, winding driveway to Wayne Manor (an equally stupidly huge building) would never get old. She was used to going in the back entrance, but seeing the front of the house in all its glory still made her feel a little giddy.

As always, the door opened seconds after they knocked. Instead of Alfred, standing in the doorway was—

“Good evening, Row.” Damian looked past Harper at Cullen. “Row.” He nodded. 

“What’s up, dude,” she brushed past him, gesturing for her brother to follow. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Pennyworth is taking an off day, mandated by Grayson and Todd.”

“Jason’s here?”

Harper noticed how Damian’s eyes lit up subtly. _Aw, cute._

“Yes,” he said curtly and walked away.

_Weird._ She couldn’t remember the last time Jason and Bruce were in the same room for longer than ten minutes without fighting. Cullen began poking her arm repeatedly. She swatted his hand away.

“What—”

“Harper! Cullen!” Bruce strode in, arms outstretched jovially. He stopped a few feet in front of them, arms lowering like he wanted to hug them but wasn’t quite sure if that was okay. _Eh, screw it._

She closed the gap between them, bringing one arm to wrap around his waist. She grabbed Cullen’s arm, and he hugged Bruce’s other side. Bruce’s huge arms came around both of them, squeezing like he thought they would break, but like they might disappear if he didn’t hold on. 

_His muscles are so huge because they’re full of love_ , flitted through Harper’s mind as the hug continued past the normal “good to see you” length. 

They pulled apart, and Bruce shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking up on his toes and back onto his heels. _He’s literally just a puppy, how is this man Batman._

“Uh, happy Father’s Day. I guess,” Harper looked down at her toes. 

“Yeah, happy Father’s Day!” Cullen echoed.

The smile in Bruce’s voice was so evident when he breathed, “thank you.” that it was almost shocking. Harper’s eyebrows and lips quirked. She’d never seen him like this. Without the weight of the world on his shoulders, looking like he’d actually rested, like he was...at peace. It was strange and wonderful all at the same time. 

“Everyone’s in the den,” he pointed to one of the gajillion hallways, and began walking towards it, beckoning for them to follow.

*

On their way to the den, after making sure that Cullen was out of earshot, Harper pulled Bruce aside.

“Look, I’m just gonna say it. I know we’re not your kids, and I know we’re not some charity case either.”

Bruce nodded. 

“But why’re we here then?”

“Well, you two might not be my children, but you’re still family.” His eyes were so sincere and _kind_.

Oh. 

“Oh,” she said, eloquently as always. They began to walk again. 

“If you wanted to...to be my kids, I could get the paperwork…” he trailed off, leaving the implications to hang in the air. 

Harper threw back her head and laughed. 

“What’s it with you and collecting kids, man?”

Bruce covered his smirk with a hand over his mouth.

“But seriously,” Harper looked up at him. “Maybe. But...not yet.”

He nodded.

“Maybe. But not yet.” He repeated. Not _yet._

*

Everyone was, in fact, in the den. 

Tim and Duke waved Harper over to the couch, pointing excitedly to the computer on Duke’s lap. 

Bruce noticed Cullen shuffling his feet, still standing right next to Bruce at the edge of the room.

“I’m going to sit down. Care to join me?” 

Cullen nodded, wide eyes scanning the room, taking in everything that was going on. They sat on the couch next to Alfred. Bruce put his arm across the back of the couch, an unspoken invitation for Cullen to sit closer. The boy scooted subtly nearer, resting his chin in his hands. Bruce smiled to himself. It was a start.

For a moment, time stilled. Frozen in this perfect evening, the last of the sun shining through the windows, stilled in it’s slow drift toward the horizon. Through the glass shone a beautiful gold hue, turning everything to melted honey and amber; sweet, warm, familiar, safe. Looking around at the faces of his children ( _his children_ ) Bruce was struck with an overwhelming feeling of contentment. He made eye contact with Dick from across the room, and his son winked, pulling Damian closer to himself. 

_I love you,_ Dick mouthed. 

Bruce’s heart was so full it almost hurt. He looked again over all of the room’s occupants: Jason on the floor with Stephanie, both animatedly playing some video game while Cass cheered them on. Tim, Duke, and Harper crowded around a laptop on one end of the couch, and Dick and Damian on the other end, peacefully observing everything. And he turned to Cullen, looking almost bewildered by the hubbub, but so, so happy. 

_I love you. I love all of you._ Bruce thought. 

He’d never been happier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys it’s finished 🥺🥺 I love you all so much, and this journey has been amazing!!! 💛💛
> 
> lyrics at the beginning taken from sleeping at last’s “light”
> 
> Come visit me [on tumblr](https://succulents-and-fairy-lights.tumblr.com)!! I’m hyperfixated on Star Wars right now so that’s mainly what I’m blogging, but there is the occasional dc post!!

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sleeping at Last’s “Life.”  
> Quote at beginning from Sleeping at Last’s “Daughter.”


End file.
